


this little chip of diamond on your hand

by anenglishwolf



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Engagement, Engagement Rings, Established Relationship, M/M, Wedding Rings, authorial asides, narrator interjections
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 09:53:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2305517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anenglishwolf/pseuds/anenglishwolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek is intending to propose to Stiles.  He's bought the ring and everything.  So he asks Scott, as his good bro, for advice and an opinion.  Bad, bad move.  Bad, bad, bad move...</p>
            </blockquote>





	this little chip of diamond on your hand

**Author's Note:**

> ...it ain't a fortune, baby, but you know it stands, FOR OUR LOVE!' Title a quote from The Four Seasons' 'Let's Hang On'.
> 
> Reference to Ferrero Rocher ads in here somewhere. How did _that_ happen?
> 
> Narrator interjections, if you don't care much for that.
> 
> Allison is alive, because... because Allison is alive.

“It's tiny,” Scott says. 

Derek leaps back defensively, slams the little grey velvet box shut and shoves it in his pocket. (Why, what did you _think_ he was showing Scott? Honestly. Some people.) His face is stiff, defensive, outraged. (He's good at that, after all. Lead with your strengths.) “It's _discreet_ ,” he says emphatically. “It's an engagement ring for a _guy_ , Scott. What do you suggest I get him, a sweetheart-cut ruby? Pink gold and gold flower-sprays around a pearl setting? It's _appropriate_. It's subtle and refined and masculine. And it also cost around half my quarterly insurance payout, if you really need to know. It's not all about the number of _carats_ , Scott.”

Oh Jeez, he's getting angrier, not calming down. This is what he does, and Scott has set it off. He's talking himself into a real hissy-fit. It'll be claws-out next: bitch-slappin' at the earliest crack of dawn, with the moon still out and round and full. “Do you know how many stones have this kind of clarity?” He whips the box out of his pocket again, flips it open and jabs it back in Scott's face like he's thinking of making him eat it. “That's how gemologists measure it, and that's what really counts. This stone is flawless, Scott. Flawless! And it also won't be the cornerstone of an outfit that will set Stiles up to join his drag-person friends for a night out at Jungle!”

Scott backs off, hands off, surrender complete. “Hey, I wasn't calling you cheap!” he protests. (He was, kind of, calling Derek cheap. He's not a gemologist. He doesn't know the first fucking thing about _clarity_.) “It's nice! It's definitely, er, subtle!” He takes another closer squint at it. “Here, let me have another look. C'mon, man. You asked my opinion in the first place, lemme look.”

Derek's face softens a bit, reluctantly. But he holds the box away a little. “You have to be nice about it.” He hesitates. “And honest. I want your honest opinion... And nice. Be tactful, Scott.” Scott knows full well that Derek is possibly the most vulnerable undefended soul in Beacon Hills. Hence his perpetual attack-is-the-best-defence policy, though he's evolved out of it some, especially since Stiles came home from college to train as a journalist on a local paper, took a good squint, and decided he was ready and experienced enough to _go get his man_. But he's never seen Derek quite _this_ ready to be crushed by a pinkie-push, a wrong word.

Scott grabs the box out of his hand, and gets another good close squint. Nice _and_ honest, he thinks, more sarcastic in his own head than he's usually capable of. You want me to get you some wolfsbane vodka that won't give you a hangover till next full moon, too? But when he gets a second squint, and has his second thoughts, it's okay. He definitely judged too soon.

It's nice. It's certainly not showy – a plain platinum band with a narrow lozenge of diamond inset into it, with a fine strip of green onyx on each side. But it's not meant to be showy, flashy. Love is private, Scott gets that. Well, except when you're _really really excited_ and you just have to talk about it _all the time._ Scott knows all about that. But that's not Derek's style.

“No, it's good, man, it's good,” he says, soothingly. They're standing pretty close together, in Scott's mom's kitchen, close enough that even if he wasn't a wolf he'd be able to feel it, as Derek relaxes.

“Are you sure?” Derek asks, and it's kind of touching how earnest he is about it. “It took me forever to choose it. I drove the salesman crazy. Scared him a bit, showing my teeth when he kept showing me horrible big glitzy rocks. You think he'll like it?”

Scott just may be welling up, a tiny bit. He leans in closer to Derek, so they have their heads close, and they look at the ring together. “He's gonna love it, man,” he says softly.

This is, of course, the moment that Stiles chooses to erupt into the kitchen, yelling promises to Scott's mom in the living room to leave at least one cookie for the Sheriff. Faced by his best bud and his boyfriend, in a spot where he probably hadn't expected them to be, he freezes. And, because Stiles always notices everything, his eyes zoom in on the ring.

His hands go to his chest, a heartfelt display of someone wounded to the core. “Oh, man. Oh, Scott. Allison isn't enough for you? You have to go and steal my man as well? And propose to him? Jeez, the betrayal. I'm cut to the quick, Scott, cut to the _quick_.” He starts to warble, as well, not a good development – Dolly Parton's 'Jolene', 'I'm begging of you please don't take my man' – and Scott laughs, dives across to cuff him.

But he's yanked into a rough hug himself. Because Stiles knows he wouldn't do that. (With _Derek_. Yeesh.) Stiles... “I can't believe it's taken you this long!” Stiles crows, and for some reason he's exultant. And he steals the box out of Scott's hand – which leaves Derek wide-eyed and horrified, grabbing for it a moment too late – and pirouettes out of reach in a split-second.

But he's too busy gabbing, to take a look, really. “So when are you asking her? You got it all planned out? You think she's got some idea? Or is it gonna be a complete surprise? She's got to have some idea by now, man, how long have you two been dating now?... Oh, man.”

Because he's come to rest on the other side of the kitchen – with Scott frozen and dumbstruck, still in the spot he was a minute ago, and Derek halfway across, hesitant, because how can he grab that little box out of Stiles' hand without claiming ownership of it? And Stiles has taken his first look at the ring itself, and his face falls from its state of high glee.

There's an awkward silence, for a moment. And then Derek emits a noise that suggests he's tried and failed to actually speak - “Ak-gak,” is something like it.

And Scott, because he is a bro, even if not a perfect bro at all times, interprets for him. He's pretty crestfallen himself, when he says, “Don't you like it?”

But man, oh man, the pause says everything. That's before Stiles turns back on a full-wattage, blinding grin, and announces, “You're kidding, right? This ring is awesome!” He bounds back to Scott's side, and slaps him on the back. “She's gonna love it! There is no ring on the planet that is the equal of this ring! This ring is the bomb!”

Well, it's certainly exploded any illusions Derek had about his taste and judgement, anyhow. Scott hasn't given up, though, although Derek is sagged back against the refrigerator, despair and dismay and _yet another romantic failure_ written all over his pretty face. Scott gets a crafty look on his face. “So you'd like it yourself, then? I mean, if you were going to pick out an engagement ring?”

That's when Stiles starts to bluster, and that's when it's crystal-clear. “Oh, well, man, what I mean is... I mean, this ring is perfect for Allison! It's one of a kind! Allison, dude, she's... tasteful, and subtle, she's got that high-fashion runway sheen and... This is definitely an Allison kind of ring! Whereas, me, man...” 

He gives a shrug that seems to take up every limb he's got and half the space in the kitchen. “Is subtle the first word that comes to mind when you think of me? Careful how you answer that,” he warns, pointing an index finger so it digs right in Scott's chest. “But what I'm saying – just for reference, big guy, so you'd better be taking notes,” he digresses, swivelling to address Derek where he's still slumped despairingly against the white goods, “is I'm a different, flamboyant, highly stylized kettle of fish. I'm more of a gangsta stroke Liberace kind of guy, right? I'm a Marilyn Monroe/Liz Taylor/Lady Gaga humoungous pinkie finger rock kind of a guy, yeah? What I mean is,” he says, beaming, stepping up to Derek and nuzzling up to him, so that Derek's hands come helplessly up to his hair, fondle it with a hopeless tenderness, “when the day comes you decide to finally make an honest man of me – big job, babe, it's not like I'm not aware of that – you'd better forget all about subtlety, bring in the big carats, have the ring towed in on the back of a truck and throw the baby grand piano in there while you're at it. You _capische_ me, baby?”

He finishes off this sobering bit of advice with a nip to the jaw, and then leaps to the open kitchen door. “Anyway, got to get out of here! On a tip for a story about runaway deadbeat dad trolls hiding out under bridges trying to get out of paying child support, over the county line. Just stopped off to scavenge for cookies at your Mom's on the way. See you guys later, and Scott – lemme know how Allison likes the ring, buddy! You don't need to tell me if she says yes or not – I think she already knows she's doomed to a lifetime of washing wolf-slobber out of the laundry after every full moon!!

And he's gone, Derek getting another quick peck, that's it, gone. Derek has such a woebegone face Scott has to give him a hug. And then a pep talk. And then drag him into brainstorming, because the ring plan? The ring plan has gone kersplooey. 

xxxxx

“Oh, man, can I try your mussels? Jeez, that is good. The garlic butter. It's still classy if I pick up the plate and drink it, right? How could anything not be classy in a place like this? With this date, Mr Wolfy Ambassador, you are really spoiling me!”

So, with Scott's advice taken on board, the plan is a) romantic date, dinner at a very high-end restaurant, and b) new ring. Chosen in haste, but since Scott came with, it's all on him if Stiles doesn't like this one _either._

The trouble is, a romantic date doesn't stay romantic for long, when Stiles is involved. Case in point, he's sucking garlic butter off his fingers right now. And not in a sexy way. More in a way that suggests it's the tablecloth next, if he's spilled any. And Derek meant to wait till the end of the night, if it went well. He meant to say a lot of heartfelt romantic things, have a big lead-up, about how Stiles has changed him for the better, has opened up his heart and made him brave, and made him ready to take risks and feel things, and think maybe he's not doomed to misery in a world full of woe and sarcastic hunters.

But Stiles is already not really co-operating, even if he doesn't know there's a plan and a schedule he needs to be co-operating _with_. If he leaves it any longer, leaves it up to Stiles, the night is liable to end up with them buying doughnuts on the walk home and finishing up with handjobs and corn-chips and WoW on the couch, and waking up in the morning with a mission incomplete and bitter regrets about not seizing the day and being too chickenshit to seize the day, and having cornchip crumbs down his briefs.

Derek gets down on one knee, before he can think about it too much. “You okay there, big hairy guy? Dropped something?” And Stiles... Stiles isn't even really paying attention. His _pommes de terres dauphinoise_ – and he did ask, first, if they had curly _pommes frites – pommes frites bouclé_ \- are apparently a lot more riveting, commanding ninety per cent of his attention. 

Derek is a patient guy – now – up to a point, and especially when he's depressed by romantic failures. But there's a limit. He flicks Stiles on the knee, hard, and Stiles pays attention. His mouth drops open. There's unattended, unmasticated french potato in it. Derek growls a little – completely excusably – and flicks him again. 

Stiles chews and swallows, and his eyes are wide enough to be in danger of dropping out of his head. Because Derek has the ring box in his hand, and is fiddling with the tricky catch, to get it open, to show... to ask...

God damn Stiles, because of course he doesn't have the patience to wait. He doesn't have the patience for microwaving poptarts without snacking on cornchips while he waits, never mind to let his man get a ring-box open and propose his own proposals.

He grabs the box, and yanks it open without finesse. “Oh, my God, is this what I think it is?” he's babbling, and he's not exactly coherent, and he leans forward to slam an awkward, almost violent kiss on Derek's cheek, not watching or taking care what he's doing, wild-eyed. And a little bit garlicky. “Because yes. Yes yes yes some more yes and _yes_. And...” He seems to hiccup, startle in place like the magical Bambi that he is, a fawn surprised in a glade. By a wolf. He throws his head back, laughs, possibly a bit tearful. “Oh my God. You crafty asshole! That wasn't Allison's ring, was it? This morning with Scott? That was _mine!_ You plotter, you scheming, you crafty...”

Derek gets one arm looped around his neck and is dragged in close, Stiles still hanging on for dear life to the ring-box. The slurpy, chewy, frankly over-enthusiastic snogging he receives isn't strong on finesse. But he'll take it. He's happy to. Very happy.

Oh, then he's shoved away again, because Stiles is an infant with no ability to focus on one thing for more than a moment or three. It's back to the ring, and Stiles whips the box around, gets his actual first look at it.

And he howls. Not in a wolfy way, more in the way of someone tragically wounded to the heart. “This? What is this? Derek? What is this? Are you kidding me? Is this all just a prank? Derek, what the hell is this and what have you done with _my ring?_ ”

He drags the contents of the box out, holds it – distastefully – by the gold band, to sparkle up in the light. (They're attracting a bit of attention at this point. More, now Stiles has upped the volume levels. Other diners are watching discreetly, and a waiter is hovering like he's dying to step up with a bottle of champagne and congratulations, but doesn't, because he has a bad, bad feeling.) 

The ring is... big. There's nothing wrong with it. It's absolutely conventional, and completely devoid of subtlety. It's a big, immensely big, decent quality rock of ossified carbon, a chunk of diamond with a flashy ruby setting and regular boring old yellow gold band. It's fucking big. It's _fuck-off_ big, actually. 

There's no reason for Stiles to take it as a tragedy. But just the same, he's hunched over in his fragile flash-restaurant chair, and staring at Derek with tragedy in his eyes, twitching and tweaking the ring back and forth in his fingers, making it flash and sparkle, guilelessly, blindingly, in the soft candlelight. 

Derek is crestfallen, up to a point. Well, he has the _yes_ under his belt, so that's that. (Five yeses, actually. Or was it six?) But evidently he's buggered up on the ring issue. _Again._

And, wolf hardiness or no, his knee is getting a bit uncomfortable. “It's what you like!” he protests. At this point, he'd appreciate a lot more coos and kisses, and maybe a bit less outraged loss and interrogation. “It's exactly what you said! A big big blatant ring and... gangsters and... pianos...” He's at a loss. He doesn't know exactly what he's done wrong, here. He's tried _really hard._ Maybe his shoulders slump a little bit.

It's probably his shoulders that get the message across. Stiles tilts his head, considers Derek, like something suddenly makes sense, anyhow. “Fuck. I did, didn't I?” He stops, and laughs. “Yeah, my own fucking fault.” Well, something is put right, with that, because he drags Derek forward by the sad shoulders – and Derek abandons the whole one-knee thing at this point, because that issue at least seems to be successfully resolved. The kiss that ensues puts a whole lot of things right, even if they're still completely unexplained. It's okay being on two knees. Derek could stop in this position for a long, long time, and never worry.

That waiter actually has a bottle in hand, now, and he's hovering a lot closer. The nearby diners look massively relieved, and several of them like they're dying for the cue to start cheering and clapping.

Stiles lets Derek's lips go free, for a moment, but he's still up pretty close. “Man,” he says, smiling into Derek's eyes, beautifully sincere. “What else was I going to say? I thought it was the ring Scott was going to give to Allison! I couldn't say, 'Jeez, man, you know this is a _guy's_ ring, right? What the fuck are you thinking?' And if I admitted I liked it – fucking loved it – myself, and that I'd grab it off you in a heartbeat if you proposed with it – then that would have been admitting that, hey, _guy's ring here!_ ” 

Stiles shrugs. “It's a buddy issue, buddy. Sometimes you have to bullshit a friend, for reasons of tact and diplomacy.”

Ah. That makes things a lot clearer. “You don't really like big rocks and glitz,” Derek says carefully. He knows. But he'd like it all spelled out just the same. He's shelled out for two humungously expensive rings this week so far. His accountant is going to expire of nervous stress.

“Oh, well...” Stiles shrugs, and takes another look at the big fuck-off rock. “Actually, this is kind of cool For a non-engagement ring, man. For going out with a feather boa, and maybe borrowing a dress off Lydia, Friday night at Jungle.”

Derek mentally tucks away that notion, and the mental image that comes with it. Because that might be worth exploring later. “But you liked the first ring better,” he says, careful.

And Stiles' face gets that puppy-just-died look. “Oh, Derek!” he frets, hopelessly. “I fucking loved that ring! That ring was the most beautiful ring that has ever adorned a jeweler's window and I wanted to scratch Allison's eyes out for it, and I am in mourning, honestly in mourning for that ring and...”

Derek takes another box out of his magical pockets. Tonight, he's David Copperfield. Or at least an America's Got Talent contestant. Pops it open, quick and clean, smug, feels as smooth as any Bond, excepting perhaps Brosnan. “Good thing I've got it right here, then, right?” he asks.

When Derek's off his knees – and has Stiles sitting on them, curled into his arms and arms twined about Derek's neck – and the waiter has finally sprung like a cougar and poured champagne, brought celebratory cake – and a couple of excitable guests have insisted on singing _True Love Ways_ (and _Happy Birthday_ , for some reason).... He takes Stiles' hands in his own. The left is bearing the actual official engagement ring, now – subtle and manly and charming. The right, pinkie aloft, has a rock on it that Sir Elton John would dismiss as _overdoing it a bit_.

“So,” Derek says idly, and possibly provocatively. “If I take _this_ gaudy thing back to the jeweler's on Monday...”

And Stiles' hand curls in on itself, he cups his hands together, protectively and possessively protecting his haul. “Like hell,” he says, smug and sly and pleased with himself. “Diamonds are a girl's best friend. And I take good care of my friends. I won't be parted from my friends. My friends are going _nowhere,_ buddy,” he admonishes, jabbing Derek in the chest with that same pinkie for good measure.

Derek tilts his champagne glass, for Stiles to drink out of. “Well, it does suit you,” he admits. “And you make a very good girl... So, this _Lydia's dress_ plan,” he diverges. “And the feather boa. Would there be stockings and suspenders involved in this plan?”

Stiles leans in for a kiss. “For a gentleman who buys me two diamonds in one week?” he asks. “I think it can be arranged. Even lace panties, maybe. My fiancé never needs to know...”


End file.
